


The Notebook

by The Lucky Bard (renieflorian)



Series: One-Shot Collection - Original characters (Dragon Age) [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Herald's Rest, Skyhold (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renieflorian/pseuds/The%20Lucky%20Bard
Summary: Cole found a notebook in which Renée was taking some notes. But the scribbles were far from being related to her work.
Relationships: Cole (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: One-Shot Collection - Original characters (Dragon Age) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015146
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	The Notebook

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "guilty pleasure" one-shot, written to soothe an anxious mind.

The requisition room looked much more attractive during the night. All the noise that was heard from there came from the tavern in the distance. Exalted conversations, often ending in quarrels that sounded more like a celebration from a lively crowd, seemed much better far away than witnessed from the eye of the storm. Renée never quite understood that, but if the people were happy and managing to forget, even for a short time, the horrors the world was facing, then everything was fine.

In contrast to all that, Maryden sang. The sweet melodies of the inquisitor's minstrel were one of the few things that encouraged Renée to keep frequenting that noisy place. Others were the beverages, albeit awful and, well...

There was Cole.

But today she decided to stay away from the spree. Her chest felt heavy and her thoughts ran in a sickening way inside her head. She swore that in just a few minutes she could throw the whole dinner up, a common situation, usually, when she lost control of her mind. She didn't want to get anyone's attention this time. One day, Ser Morris had witnessed one of these episodes and, with great disgust, she remembers the quartermaster chattering nonstop, making it all feel ten times worse. _“Shut up... shut up,”_ she thought, but kept the complaint to herself, not wanting to sound rude. A nightmare.

Her favorite spot of the requisition office, even though it was her workplace during the day, was a wooden table with a rather rough cut, placed nearby a small window on the top floor. There was a warm and soft light bathing the room, coming from the Herald's Rest, an ideal lighting that, on full moon nights, not even torches were necessary to be lit. But today a small candle was required to be lighted, since a thick fog descended on Skyhold, veiling all the lights coming from the external fortress. The scenery seemed tenebrous in the eyes of many, but Renée was finding it quite charming.

She sat at her desk and first ran her fingers through the slits of the badly cut battens of the furniture. The careless and unintentional movement was helping to settle her thoughts down, feeling the material texture as if it was possible to hear the song that once could have been sung by that tree when alive. Then, she closed her eyes, and the corner of her lips curved in a faint smile of satisfaction. When she opened them again, gently, after a deep breath that seemed to have opened the way to her lungs like a river sprawling its riverbed in a parched valley, she accessed a small notebook that she kept close to her notes and research maps.

Its pages were filled with quick scribbles and also more elaborate drawings, huddled side by side without a pattern that made sense. There were a few written things there too, but only daydreams of a mind that, at times, set aside academic rigor and traveled through the world of dreams. There were plants, landscapes, paint stains, real and also imaginary creatures, and sometimes some people. But only faces. She was too lazy to portray them entirely, and what most fascinated her was the eyes. There were hundreds of them scattered all across the sheets.

Interestingly, in the most recent pages, the face of a single person, in particular, was obstinately portrayed, or sometimes details of it that seemed to be more interesting, such as the gaze. A gaze that, mostly, was covered by wispy strands of blond hair. Some attempts to illustrate it without this detail seemed unsuccessful or frustrated, with badly finished sketches or scratched with a certain fury.

Today, the theme would be no different. The tracing was done almost spontaneously as if her hand did not need the express orders of her brain to outline those shapes. However, in the midst of her artistic delirium, she felt the atmosphere oscillating smoothly behind her. She then closed her eyes and held her breath.

“You didn't go to the tavern today.” A delicate voice came from behind her back.

Discreetly, she closed her notebook and turned back, trying to mask the frisson, inside and outside her.

“How long have you been there, Cole?” she asked kindly, with a shy smile on her lips.

The young man was standing just a few feet away from her, immobile, except for his hands that clutched each other insecurely. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered after a moment of hesitation. “I shouldn’t have come without announcing.”

Renée then stood up determined but was almost betrayed by her legs that had faltered the moment she stood before him. “It's okay, Cole. No need to apologize.” Her voice came out choked and she smiled awkwardly.

He swang on his legs, intrigued by something he had witnessed before Renée could notice his presence. Then he walked sheepishly towards the researcher's desk, his gaze focused on its surface, and touched the cover of her notebook inadvertently. He was so close that she could hear the adorable, soft sound of his breathing and the moment when he swallowed before opening his mouth to say something.

“You make traces that are not real, but these make you _feel_ real, healed... you do this very well.”

How much must Cole have seen to be able to say that?

“I need to know how to do this, Cole,” she said, her cheeks becoming slightly flushed, “my job requires me to write down everything I see, and the drawings help. They often work better than words.”

He watched the notebook confused, rehearsing to open it a few times. “But there are no rock drawings here. Neither artifacts.” He looked at her shyly. “Can I see it?”

Renée swallowed. But that request sounded so sweet that she was unable to deny access to her doodles. With a faint murmur, she nodded, leaving the boy alone so he could do that without her being around. She left like a feral animal, arms crossed tight against her own chest, heading hastily to the small window ledge. She didn’t want to be looking at him when he saw what was in that notebook.

The silence that has passed since then has been overwhelming. Just the sound of pages being turned, slow and carefully. Painfully slow. He was spending too much time in each one, she thought, and the anxiety only grew between each leaf through. Sometimes, she could hear soft delighted giggles coming from him, and she guessed that he could probably be admiring her creature drawings. She knew he _loved_ it. The sweet sound of his laughter made her smile with delight at herself, but she still avoided looking at him.

Then silence again, and the pages stopped turning.

_He found out._

Her heart sped up wildly inside her chest and she tried to focus somewhere outside, an attempt to avoid any kind of reflections.

“There’s a lot of _‘me’_ here,” he observed curiously, “but you made me more handsome.”

Renée held her breath, her whole face turned into an intense blush and all she wanted to do was to run away, disappear without a trace. Her mind started to work fast again and she made an extraordinary effort to try to hide her thoughts.

“ _Blue, blue, blue_ …” Cole noted curiously, “why are you--?”

“Cole, stop trying to read my thoughts, please!” She interrupted him in exasperation and began pacing nervously before him, avoiding his gaze.

“I’m sorry!” he said worried, “It's too loud! I… I can’t avoid listening--”

Renée stopped, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. How difficult it was to scold him! She was watching him with concerned eyes, but he was too absorbed in the drawings to notice her troubled face. What a relief.

“Look…” she said, at last, her voice shaky and weak, “I didn’t make you _more_ handsome, I did what I see. And I see you like that, Cole.” Not even she believed what she had just said, so she bit her lip and looked away.

He stroked tenderly each drawing, still fascinated by them. “It makes you feel happy to do that. It's here, these lines are singing. I can hear it. That's why it looks more beautiful.”

Renée fought to keep a tear from falling on her cheek at that moment, but she felt her eyes were full of them and, at any instant, she could be a weeping disaster. She didn't want Cole to see that. She just smiled bashful, sending her gaze to the floor.

“But the hat…” he punctuated, “not quite. You need to practice it more.”

That was unexpected. He was now being a little harsh in his criticisms, she thought to herself, though she agreed with him. But even so, his comments were making Renée a little more relaxed. There was probably no intention there, Cole was just being as sincere as he always was. She didn’t want to elaborate an argument at this point. Probably would be wiser to keep it quiet.

“Though you still hide the eyes,” he continued, “and you seem to like them. Why?”

She then looked at him, uncertain for a moment, but then she understood. “I can never see them… quite clearly,” she said self-consciously, pulling faces, “so, I don't know how exactly they look like…”

Cole groaned softly, showing understanding. He knew what it was about. So, he reached for his hat with both hands, carefully removing it from his head and resting it on the back of the chair. His bright blond hair was marked by the continuous use of that piece and, by his attitude, Renée knew what his intention was. But something was still obstructing the view.

She approached him a little more, slowly raising a hand towards his face. However, she noticed that his eyes widened with that attitude, so she immediately pushed it away. Perhaps it would be better to ask for permission before anything could be done.

“May I...?” she questioned uncertain.

Cole was still looking puzzled. She almost regretted that bold request, but after a brief moment of reflection, he nodded then, completely mute and looking at her eyes, one at a time, with curiosity.

Request accepted, she then restarted the process. Now with an exaggerated prudence, she reached for the locks of hair that fell over his eyes. She was amazed by the delicacy of the strands, very reminiscent of a baby's hair, too fine, and a little oily to the touch. She brushed the first strands away with her fingertips, gently, avoiding touching his skin, but the marks left by his hat made them fall on his forehead again. Renée smiled awkwardly, but Cole remained silent, his suspicious eyes staring at her intently. She, therefore, decided to do it with more intention. She slid carefully her fingers deeper into his hair, lingering for a while to adjust the strands to the new position.

Cole then closed his eyes. Perhaps this was the first time someone had touched him that way and Renée didn’t know whether to keep it or move away immediately. The doubt was growing with an excruciating pain.

But the unexpected was about to happen. Lulled by her touch, Cole leaned his head into her hand in a delicate way, as if he were longing for that contact. A bird that had just fallen from the nest and was rescued by gentle hands. Her heart was pounding and she felt a growing terror if Cole caught any of her thoughts at that moment. She then decided to remove her hand with kindness and, luckily, his unruly hair remained in place this time. A hard decision, but she couldn’t risk it.

“Are you alright?” she asked apprehensively, an awkward smile on her lips. But nothing came out of Cole’s and he still kept his eyes shut. “Cole?” she tried again, now a little more fearful.

And finally, he opened his eyes, as if he had suddenly woken from a dream. However, Renée noticed that the spirit revealed a stern face, despite his tender eyes. Did he always have that expression?

“Ah... now I can see it... entirely,” she said hesitantly. Was he annoyed by something she said? Perhaps she crossed the borders too far by touching him more than she should?

“ _Talk to me, for the Maker's sake!_ ” she mentalized desperately.

“It’s easier to see now,” Cole said finally, looking around in awe. “Thank you.”

Renée laughed. Perhaps she panicked more than the necessary.

“And now you can see my eyes. As I see everything clearer now,” he said brightly. “You can draw them now as they make your soul want to sing.”

Or maybe not. Renée kept all her ideas to herself, though perhaps it was too late, afraid that whatever she could say, or even think, would make him run away, terrified. But he looked strangely satisfied. Does he--?

“I could stay here for you to practice,” he suggested, “but you need to do it with the hat first. I can leave it here with you if you want.”

He then smiled in a way she had never seen before. Well, just heard. But that time, it wasn’t about the creatures drawings. And without announcing, as he came, Cole disappeared into midair, leaving his hat behind on the back of the chair. Renée watched it for a moment, contemplative, when a wide smile broke across her face. She touched the piece tenderly, a delicate heat warming her stomach.

That night, she then drew.

_He wanted hats_.

So she did it.


End file.
